


Student

by holy_milk



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 10:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20673887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holy_milk/pseuds/holy_milk
Summary: Telpemeldë hasn't had students for a very long time, and she definitely doesn't expect a son of Fëanáro to turn up on her doorstep and ask to become one.





	Student

**Author's Note:**

> Telpemeldë is my OC, she's one of the Tatyar (and, subsequently, the Noldor) and the mother of Miriel. She makes an appearance [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20634425), although it isn't really connected to this story in terms of plot.
> 
> I'm not a native English speaker, so any odd-looking wording that you may encounter will probably have something to do with that. As always, corrections and comments are highly appreciated.

She wasn't expecting guests when somebody knocked on her door. Telpemeldë frowned but put down the piece of fabric she was studying and went to answer it.

She felt her breath catching in her throat when she saw the youn man standing on her doorstep, clad in all black despite the summer heat.

“Greetings,” he bowed his head.

Telpemeldë bowed hers and stepped aside, silently inviting him to come in, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He hesitated for a moment, looking unsure, but came in before she could regain her speech.

She closed the door and led him to a room adjacent to her workshop, the one where, back in the better times, her customers had waited for their fittings and dressed, or her friends and relatives gathered together to chat and share a laugh. It was hardly ever used now, and a thick blanket of dust covered most of the surfaces.

She pointed at a worn-out armchair and said, “Please, sit down. Would you like some tea? I have just put on a kettle.”

“No,” he said quickly and winced at the hoarseness in his voice. “Although actually, I wouldn’t mind. I’m parched.”

Telpemeldë nodded and went to the kitchen. She busied herself with finding two clean cups and then with preparing the tea, although she couldn’t help a quick glance in the direction of the living room every now and then.

She recognised the young man right away, of course, even if the last time she saw him he was bawling his eyes out and trying to wriggle free of the confinement of his father’s arms, who was trying to calm his new child down and declare his father-name at the same time.

She just hadn't expected to ever see a son of Fëanáro in her house.

Telpemeldë went back to the room with a cup in each hand. Morifinwë – because that is who he was, her fourth and last great-grandson – accepted one with a mumbled ‘thank you’ and drained it in a couple of big gulps, while Telpemeldë, quietly sipping hers, took in the sight of him.

He was tall and somewhat lanky, which wasn’t at all unusual for a young Elda his age. His hair, tied up in a simple knot, was raven-dark just like his grandfather Finwë’s, and his face looked slightly redder than most Eldar’s – she wondered if it was something he inherited from his mother, or if it was the heat, or if he was ashamed of coming to her. But what made her heart ache was the fact that, apart from the hair and the blush, it was as though the young man before her eyes had stepped right out of the mirror in her bedroom. He had her eyes – dark-grey, as a stormy sky – her strong jawline and her hawk nose. He wasn’t as gorgeous as his father or as well-shaped as Nelyafinwë, nor did he have Kanafinwë’s lovely face or Turkafnwë’s good looks – but she still thought him beautiful, if only because she had long hoped to see a glimpse of herself reflected in one of her descendants.

Morifinwë put down his cup, looking suddenly embarrassed. Whatever it was that he came for, he had some difficulty working up the nerve to say it, so Telpemeldë decided to break the silence, instead, “I'm glad to finally meet one of my great-grandsons in person. But I take it that you didn’t come here just to chat?”

“No,” he admitted. “I came because…” he trailed off, and she waited, expectantly, “because I wanted you to teach me.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Teach you? What?”

“Everything,” Morifinwë gestured vaguely with his right hand. “Weaving, sewing, embroidery – everything that you do.”

She blinked.

“You like working with fabric?” she asked.

He nodded.

“And did you come here because your father suggested that you do?”

Morifinwë shifted uneasily, and his face became even redder.

“No, he didn’t.”

“I see," she said and then added, before she could stop herself, "Who did he send you to?"

“Eminyë of the King’s court.”

“Then surely your father wouldn’t approve of your coming _here_?”

He shrugged.

“Probably not. But then, he always tells us that we need to learn from the best or not bother learning at all, and as far as I know," he met her eyes squarely, "you are the one known for her needlework throughout all of Valinor, not Eminyë.”

_Learn from the best or don't bother learning at all._ She shook her head silently. It seemed that at least Fëanaro remembered something she had taught him all those ages ago.

“I’m flattered,” she said.

He fidgeted a little, his initial embarrassment replaced by restlessness, and asked, hopeful, “Will you take me, then? As your student?”

She leant back into her armchair, tapping a long finger against her lip. She hadn’t had students for ages – in fact, she hadn’t been paying much attention to her work, either, so drowned was she in sorrow after losing her only daughter to the cruelty of the Valar and the King's selfish whims. To be honest, she couldn't say with certainty that she hadn’t been actually bested by that Eminyë of the King’s court after neglecting her craft for so long.

But then, how could she possibly turn down a son of Fëanáro when he came to her by his own free will?

“I will,” she said, at last. “But you must be prepared to work hard – you’ll find that I’m a very strict teacher.”

“I am,” he said, relieved, and smiled.

They talked about when and how often he should come to her house, and then she took him on a tour of her workshop, pointing out different tools, showing him the fabrics and her different projects. Morifinwë listened and watched carefully, touching and poking when he was allowed to, and bombarded her with questions afterwards.

A couple of hours later he said that it was time for him to go.

“Thank you for coming, Morifinwë,” she said, seeing him to the door, “I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow morning.”

Morifinwë said goodbye, and Telpemeldë watched his retreating back for a while. But just as she made to close the door, he suddenly spun on his heels and ran back, stopping at the foot of the steps to her front porch.

“You can call me Carnistir,” he called, a little breathlessly.

And, without another word, he turned and walked away.

She closed the door, smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Father-names are basically public names among the Eldar, and they are announced during a special ceremony soon after the birth of a child. Telpemeldë refers to Caranthir as Morifinwë rather than Carnistir because, naturally, she knows all of her great-grandons' father-names but none of their mother-names, which are given in private and reserved for the use by family and friends (something that Fëanor doesn't consider her to be anymore).


End file.
